Flight Risk

Concept

The form looms and veers past, willing
me to compromise, to give ground. I roll and pinch the thing into place, I
collect and make offerings. This architecture melts and leans, hoarding objects
in its folds. It lurches and dares you to approach, it tears cloth and flesh,
it could collapse with the brush of a hand.

Nothing is thrown away. This immigrant
lives in fear of waste. Old yoghurt is used to jumpstart
the new batch. What is worth risking for things to get juicy, rare, ripe? What
might be discovered on the verge of things going bad?